


The Wren

by ladyofpride



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Barry is still a shining beacon of light, Dark, F/M, Heavy Language, M/M, Multi, New 52, Violence, Zero Year, dark au, even though Bruce is often a bitter son-of-a-gun, expect other heroes and villains as time progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofpride/pseuds/ladyofpride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a freshly minted CSI graduate, Barry intends to make good on his promise to solve the mystery surrounding his mother’s untimely death. However, since the <em>man in the lightning</em> has yet to make an appearance in well over a decade, Barry decides to take up work in the one city with cases just as unusual as Nora Allen’s murder, if for no other reason than to get a little experience under his belt. </p><p>That city is <em>Gotham</em>.</p><p>Being young and naïve in the GCPD doesn’t do a guy many favours though, especially when you’re a goodie-two-shoes like Barry Allen, working day-in and day-out to solve a series of gruesome murders. In fact, it isn’t too long before someone decides that Mr. Allen is due for an unfortunate accident of his own...</p><p>That is, until that crazy new lunatic, the <em>‘Batman’</em>, intervenes…</p><p>((An AU origin story of sorts, prior to the lightning strike, where Barry Allen starts his foray into the world of crime fighting in a rather unorthodox manner, although still under the mentorship of someone as equally broody as the Arrow…))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The killing kind

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: As indicated in the summary, the premise of this story stems from the idea of _‘what if’_ Barry had gone to Gotham immediately after graduating as a CSI rather than Central City. Now, while I was inspired to write this story while working on another _Flash_ AU (The Oubliette), it is **not at all** necessary that you’ve read that fic in order to enjoy this one.
> 
> Having said that, it is _also_ not at all necessary that you know about the _Zero Year_ story arc in the _New 52_ DC universe. Since the 2014 show has obviously been inspired by the _New 52_ universe though, I’ve decided to draw my information for Batman’s background from the _Zero Year_ series. ( **Comic book spoiler alert** ) In this origin arc, Bruce returns from a long jaunt across the globe, having trained with the shadiest people in the world and getting beat up an awful lot along the way, to ‘kind of’ finally take over his place as the head of Wayne Enterprises. He’s this incredibly traumatized, bitter 25-26 year old man who develops the second identity of the _‘Batman’_ to take down the Red Hood gang, although it’s not long after that before the Riddler _literally_ takes Gotham hostage. The Riddler cripples the city with an EMP blast shortly before Superstorm _Rene_ hits the city, thereby turning the city into his own personal jungle, one which he monitors day in and day out by drones and other mechanical inventions. Obviously, Batman eventually beats him too, but the city, as it stands, is still in a state of disarray. 
> 
> Cue Barry Allen’s entrance.
> 
> Welcome to hell, kiddo…

_“The real hero is always a hero by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward like everybody else.”_ ― Umberto Eco

~***~

Gotham is not for the faint of heart.

Her father moved to this city when he was only twenty-two, a young and aspiring journalist who rode in a rickety old bus straight from Philadelphia for an interview at the _Gotham Times_. He was a clean shaven and well-dressed man, carrying nothing more on his person than a small suitcase stuffed with a change of clothes and a roll of dollar bills tucked away safely in his jacket pocket. He was hopeful. He was naïve.

He was mugged just fifteen minutes prior to his big interview.

He still got the job, obviously, otherwise she wouldn’t be here right now, clutching her coat close to her body as she hustles her way down the darkened street. Her knuckles are bloody. She just ran from a fight. Two thugs were pounding on some young kid smoking a joint behind the grocery store five blocks back and she'd intervened on his behalf, feeling that it was her duty as a citizen of Gotham to show those morons how to throw a _real_ punch…

She’s no Batman, of course, but then who is? After the whole of Gotham was plunged into chaos by some fanatic with a penchant for the colour green, it was about time somebody else joined the good fight. People say they feel safer with the man in the bat suit roaming the streets, but he’s still just _one_ man. He can’t be everywhere all at once.

He shouldn’t have to be the only one wiling to get his hands dirty.

She grins.

The split in her bottom lip burns something fierce.

Tonight will be her fifth victory since making it her personal goal to clean up this sleepy little corner of the slums, keep it safe at night so the masked vigilante won’t have to. She’s doing him a favour, really, freeing up his time to help some other damsel in distress. He might not know it yet, but she figures he’s inspired a revolution here. It won’t be long now before other heroes pop out of the woodwork.

Soon, _they’ll_ be the ones running this town.

A crisp wind blows down the street just then, kicking up litter and the first of autumn’s fallen leaves. She shivers, but tells herself that she only has three more blocks to go. Then she’ll be home. Then _she’ll_ be safe.

“… _Snap_.”

She jumps before coming to an abrupt halt, confused. That sounded an awful lot like a human voice, but the stranger’s choice of words is a curious thing. Why ‘ _snap’_?

She whirls around to face her unexpected guest, figuring him to be a hell of lot farther back than he actually is. As such, she doesn’t have the time to come up with a decent plan of action before he raises his hands and braces them against either side of her head.

 Then she thinks, _‘Oh_. _’_

 _‘Snap_ ’ is the sound her neck makes…

~***~

Monday morning finds Barry Allen in the back seat of Det. Bullock’s speeding 1980 Dodge Diplomat, eyes squeezed shut, one hand braced against the door as he wills his breakfast back down his throat.

Harvey Bullock himself is behind the wheel. Sitting shotgun to him is Det. Conner Rask. The pair of them make quite the unusual team. Case in point: they’re not flying through the streets so much due to the urgency of their recent call as to the fact that it’s 5:30 in the morning and they’ve hit a clear stretch en route to the museum. Det. Rask had casually remarked that he was glad no one was taking advantage of the early hour to break the speed limit, and Det. Bullock had responded by flooring it.

Rask shot his partner a dirty look as the speedometer crept past 40mph, but said nothing of it as he shook his head in utter disappointment.

Barry figures the two of them they haven’t been partners for very long.

After six blocks, they blessedly approach a red light, at which point Det. Bullock finally decides to ease off the gas. As he waits for the light to turn, he reaches up to readjust the review mirror and steals a quick glance at Barry in the reflection. “So…Central City, huh?”

Still pale faced and little nauseated, Barry slowly nods his head.

 “I have an aunt who lives in Central. Quiet place. Low crime rate, I hear.”

Barry nods again, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Uh, yeah. My foster father is a detective there, actually.”

“Is that why you came all the way out here?” The detective inquires, and it’s then that Barry realizes where this conversation is going. “Would’ve felt weird working in the same town…?”

 _‘No,’_ Barry thinks, but he doesn’t say as much aloud. Other than his tendency to be tardy, the men at the GCPD liked to rib him on the fact that he’s too young and hopeful for a new recruit in their crooked little city. Gotham is the stuff of nightmares, you understand. Not at all a friendly place for _‘little boys’_ …

Barry isn’t exactly a fan of their ridicule, however good their intentions might be, but it isn’t as though he came here on a whim. Being twenty-one and fresh from university, he’s determined to see how the loonies in this backward city manage to pull off their heists with such an air of mystery, his somewhat innocent logic being that if he can prove to himself he’s capable of solving these unusual crimes, then he’ll be more than capable of applying his experience to similar unexplained cases in Central City.

Namely the one surrounding his mother’s murder.

When it becomes clear to him that Det. Bullock is still waiting for some kind of answer, Barry tries to go for nonchalant by saying, “I was looking for a challenge.”

Bullock snorts out a laugh. “Famous last words…”

“Don’t let him scare you,” Rask interjects, glancing back at Barry over his shoulder. He’s got one of those flashy smiles, all perfectly white teeth lined up in a row, like the poster boy for a Colgate commercial. “I started off in Gotham six years ago. I’ve been told that the longest anyone at the precinct bet I would stay was eight months. I think the highest for you right now is five...”

“Four and a half,” Bullock amends.

Rask arches an eyebrow. “Okay. Four and a half—myself excluded.” The man offers him another warm smile. “I think you can make it here if you’re really set on it, Mr. Allen.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, grateful that at least _someone_ appeared to be on his side.

Bullock mutters something under his breath.

They make it to the museum shortly after that. A single police cruiser has already pulled up in front of the building, undoubtedly the first responder to this unprecedented murder. Rask points out that Bullock’s parked too close behind him, but his complaint falls on deaf ears. They pause for a moment to glare at each other over the hood of the car.

Barry grabs his satchel bag and hikes it up over his shoulder, wondering what the chances are he can catch a ride back to the precinct with somebody else.

After a long, tense moment reminiscent of an old western standoff, the two detectives head up the main stairway to the museum’s entrance, Barry trailing quietly after them. They’re greeted by an ashen faced security guard at the front door and led through the main lobby toward the new ‘ _Australia’_ exhibit in the southeast hall. Out on display are a number of artefacts from the aboriginals of mainland Australia and the island of Tasmania, as well as several taxidermy animals. Everything looks as well as could be expected until you reach the far end of the room, where five precious gems from the continent were once laid out on a velvet cushion under a glass panel, now replaced with the sort of damage you would expect from a small but volatile explosion.

According to the call they received from dispatch, the display case had seemingly exploded earlier that morning when Miss Veronica Higgins tried to add a recently polished sixth gem to the group. No one knew the exact cause of the explosion yet, but almost immediately after opening the case the whole thing had gone off in her face.

Bits of wood and specks of the dazzling rock and glass are scattered across the marble floor, accompanied by what remains of the young Miss Higgins’ slumped form at the base of the display case, her head and chest having taken the brunt of the damage.

Rask scrunches up his nose a little in disgust at the sight of her body. Bullock shakes his head.

Barry, feeling somewhat nauseated again, whips out his camera and the numbered placards from his satchel bag.

A second security guard is currently sitting on a watchman’s chair in the far corner of the room, face in his hands as the first officer on scene continues to take down his statement. Barry is focused on processing the scene for the time being, but he still keeps his ears open as Rask approaches the shaken man, hands stuffed in the pockets of his trench coat as he joins the conversation.

“I saw n-nothing unusual,” the man sobs. “As soon as I turned my back, s-she unlocked the case, and…and…” In the corner of his eye, Barry can see the man gesturing wildly this way with his hand. “…and then _that_ went off like a fucking firework. I-I had no idea what was going on until I turned around.”

Cautiously, Barry moves closer to the case, peering down at the disaster. He’d have to collect the debris, but given time he could figure out how exactly the booby-trap had been set up.

Turning around, he looks at the first security guard and asks, “Is there any chance you have a picture of the display? You know, something showing the layout of the gems?”

“Possibly,” the man replies. “If not, we have a security camera focused on this display case. I can get you a still from earlier footage.”

“Were you watching the cameras when this happened?” Bullock asks.

Slowly, the guard nods. “All you can really see is a flash of light and a small plume of smoke. It looked like it exploded for absolutely no reason.”

“When was the last time anyone touched this display?”

“Oh, god, I have no idea… Weeks ago, maybe? Probably when they were first setting up the exhibit. You’ll have to check with the head curator, Philip Truman.”

Bullock nods grimly, stepping around Barry to take a closer look at the body as the young CSI sets down a placard next to one of the shattered stones. “I’d like to have his contact information.”

“He’s actually on his way now,” the guard says quietly. Barry snaps a couple shot of the fragments, trying to shrug the odd sensation that he’s missing something important here, before he glances back over his shoulder at the nervous man. “Veronica…well, Veronica is his niece.”

Oh _god_.

As if on cue, they can suddenly hear someone walking briskly down the hall toward the exhibit, heels taping furiously against the marble floor. More than one person, actually—which is why Barry visibly relaxes when his fellow CSIs, Bradley Mitch and Trish Simons, waltz into the room.

“Holy cow. First on the scene, Mr. Allen?” Mitch quips as he approaches, eyes wide with mock surprise before his gaze drifts over to Det. Bullock. “Did that happen by choice or…?”

“I kidnapped him from the lab before heading out,” Bullock supplies, before herding the first security guard toward Rask, out of the way. “You’re welcome.”

“I caught a ride with him once,” Trish admits quietly as she reaches into her own satchel for a roll of yellow crime scene tape. “Drove like a maniac. How was it?”

“Pretty much the same,” Barry replies, just as Mitch taps him on his shoulder to check his camera. He relinquishes it to his supervisor sheepishly, hoping he hadn’t missed anything important in his initial survey of the scene.

Silver-haired and nearing 60, Bradley Mitch was a kind, if somewhat severe, mentor in the lab. Trish, who had already spent three years with the GCPD, had confided in him that Mitch was only now beginning to trust her to work competently on her own. He could be downright cruel sometimes in his evaluation of his junior members.

His expectations for them were pretty fucking high.

Truth be told though, the man was only as critical in his judgment of their work as was warranted of a man in his position. Nothing he said was to be taken personally, you know? It was all just a part of the job…

Barry stiffens as Mitch browses through his pictures.

After a while, the man hands him back his camera. “Good. I can see you’ve done a decent preliminary survey of the area, Mr. Allen.”

Unwinding the roll of tape, Trish shoots Barry a mildly annoyed look.

“ _But…_ ” his supervisor continues, “always remember to establish the dimensions of the scene and secure the area _before_ you start collecting evidence. The medical examiner is on her way here and I’m pretty sure someone from the bomb unit won’t be too far behind. The last thing you want is one of them trampling over something important. Okay?”

Barry nods, feeling like an idiot for screwing up one of the cardinal rules. “Yes, sir…”

“No worries,” Mitch chuckles, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re usually last on the scene anyway. I don’t even know if you’ve ever had to secure the area on your own before.”

Barry’s sure the man means that as a joke, but his shame continues burning a hole through the bottom of his stomach anyway.

He graduated with top honours in his program.

He shouldn’t have missed something as simple as _this_.

Trish, thankfully, saves him from the awkwardness of the moment by saying, “Did we really just beat the bomb squad here? I mean, should we be touching anything before they arrive…?”

“They’ve been a little busy lately,” Mitch replies, giving a quick once-over to the destroyed display case. “All our regular protocols have gone to hell since the ‘ _crisis’_. Just stick to snapping photos until they arrive, boys and girls. Try not to touch anything in the meantime…”

Of course, by _‘crisis’_ Mitch is referring to the madness that ensued after the whole of Gotham had been plunged into darkness by a single EMP blast—which was only a bizarre prelude to the complete seizure of the city by some maniac calling himself the Riddler.

The man had single-handedly held the city hostage for weeks on end prior to Barry’s working there. His personal drones had wandered the streets around the clock, keeping Gothamites in and the military out, whipping the people into a state of near-blinding terror by making daily derogatory announcements over the city’s downtown jumbotron screen. Of course, that’s not to say he didn’t give them a chance to earn their freedom. In fact, if someone could conjure up a riddle not even _he_ could solve, the whole lot of them were welcome to leave this makeshift jungle…

Few dared to challenge him though, because the penalty for failure was a short drop into a colossal pit. Rumour had it that jackals circled down below. Some witnesses argued that it was lions.

Whatever the case may be, their screams all sounded pretty the same.

Then some guy in a bat suit had intervened on the people’s behalf, bringing the Riddler’s reign to a decisive end.

Barry’s still not entirely clear on the details of _how_ this masked vigilante managed to sniff out the Riddler’s bolthole and turn the power back on, but part of what intrigues him about Gotham is the absolute absurdity of catastrophes just as these. According to what the recently promoted Commissioner Gordon had said, there had even some malformed scientist running amok during the blackout, injecting people with a serum that triggered uncontrollable bone growth, warping their bodies into agonizing configurations before killing them altogether.

Barry wonders if this is the sort of place the _man in the lightning_ would call his home…

He doesn’t want to get his hopes up too high though.

Trish tosses him a second roll of tape to unwind as Mitch steps around the scene to speak with Bullock. Barry can hear the head CSI informing the detective that it’s more likely than not that the bomb squad will be delayed, just as someone screams out in the hallway.

It’s more of a holler really, but there’s still an almost primal quality to it, deep and animalistic. It touches something inside of him, sending shivers down his spine…

Barry recognizes that as the sound of a truly inconsolable man.

Sure enough, an elderly gentleman darts into the room just then, flanked on either side by two female guards, both of which are trying to stop him. Given his tear-streaked face and the absolutely livid look in his eyes, Barry is betting that this man must be Philip Truman, the uncle of the recently deceased Miss Higgins.

And he doesn’t seem care one whit about preserving the integrity of the crime scene.

“Uh, sir…” Barry says tentatively as the man approaches.

“ _Get out of my way_!” The man shrieks, staring past Barry at the macabre display. The sight of his niece seems to set him off again, a chilling moan bubbling up from the bitter depths of his grief as he forges onward.

“ _Sir_ ,” Bullock says sternly, pushing past Mitch to intervene. “I understand that you’re—”

Mr. Truman glances at Bullock, eyes flashing dangerously as he picks up his pace—before turning his gaze squarely on Barry. Barry starts, because he has honestly no idea if he’s expected to restrain this poor fellow, but that decision is ultimately taken from him when Mr. Truman lifts the black umbrella tucked under his arm and whips it around at Barry’s head.

It’s connects with his left temple with a sickening _crack_. Stars flitter across Barry’s vision as he collapses to the ground.

For a long time, he hears and sees absolutely nothing.

After a moment though, he slowly regains his senses, specks of light filling the field of his vision as he gradually returns to consciousness. He wakes up lying flat on his back on the marble floor, surrounded by frantically dancing shadows and muffled voices, and that’s when the pain finally sets in, a constant throbbing in time with his pulse, hard and steady against his temple.

He feels like he’s about to be genuinely sick.

“—thank _god_!” someone says above him as a cold hand touches the side of his face. He flinches away from it and then regrets his reaction almost immediately, wincing in pain.

“Don’t move, sir,” comes another voice, this one foreign. Barry’s eyes eventually focus on the face of one of the female guards. She says something else, but he blacks out again briefly, returning a second time to find Mitch and Det. Bullock looming over him instead.

Bullock smiles down at him wryly as he shakes his head. “Seriously, kid— _don’t_ move this time. We’re carting you off to the hospital.”

“ _No_ …” he groans.

“Yeah, yeah, I know…Not a bad swing for an old guy though, eh?”

Barry remains conscious long enough to catch the disappointed look Mitch shoots the detective over his limp figure.

Then he succumbs to the darkness once again.

~***~

_‘No one saves us but ourselves.’_

Gautama Buddha said that.

He knows there’s a deeper meaning behind the quote than the first interpretation that comes to mind. It’s a lesson in change, really. Of inner strength.

No man can make better his life than he himself.

Sound advice, that…

Except somewhere between memory and conscious thought, his weary mind conjures images of a dead woman in the East End, a self-made heroine tossed carelessly out into the centre of street, her head tilted at an awkward angle. In a city so scarred by the Riddler’s brief but tyrannical reign, she had been only one of many to lash out at Gotham’s criminal element under the guise of night. She knew this city was suffering and she was prepared to rise to the challenge.

Or so she thought.

Prior to the EMP blast—or the Superstorm _Rene_ that followed shortly after—the people of Gotham had wandered through life in something of a daze. The Riddler tried to use this as an excuse to justify his actions, pointing out that he was only weeding out the weak with this twisted little game of his. He was using Gotham as a vehicle for human evolution, you see. He was only trying to help humanity.

In reality, this was all just a cruel joke. Nygma knew he had them beat. His true aim was to draw attention to their failings, the better to prove his own superiority. Given time, he would’ve gladly picked them off one by one. He didn’t give a _damn_ about evolution.

Frustrated, Bruce leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes.

He’s been staring at the computer screen in this cold and lonely corner of the cave for the last five hours, pouring over images and police reports from seven other similar murders. Each victim had been witnessed committing acts of vigilantism at one point or another following the crisis. They were fighters, all of them. In fact, this last woman had only recently taken down two drunken thugs behind a corner store, one of which weighed probably twice as much as she did. Size, apparently, wasn’t enough to deter someone as tenacious as she.

However, the police had only chalked up this incident as either gang-related activity or a revenge killing. No small leap of logic there—either one of these men could’ve easily followed her home. Breaking her neck would’ve been no great feat.

But that just isn’t the case.

The connection is tentative, but he still feels it in his gut, this tiny tug toward the most innocuously-seeming details:

None of these victims had been beaten prior to their deaths.

Each had been killed with their own weapon of choice in a single blow.

Case in point: four of the victims had been known to fight unarmed, one had wielded a baseball bat, and the remaining two had fought with knives. In accordance with those numbers, four of these people had been eliminated through cervical dislocation, one with severe blunt force trauma to the head, and the last two had been taken out by a well-aimed stab at the heart.

There were also no witnesses for any of the aforementioned murders. Each victim was killed shortly after they had committed some form of heroic deed, but their assailant left no evidence in his wake. Nothing to suggest who he was or why he’s targeting these people.

It’s as though Bruce is dealing with a ghost.

Behind him, he can hear someone climbing down the ladder.

He tenses.

“It’s almost nightfall, sir,” Alfred says as he descends carefully into Bruce’s base of operations. It’s dark down here but for the eerie glow of the computer screen, casting a dim blue light across the uneven ground. “Would you care to eat anything before you leave?”

With a single click, Bruce hides the grisly photographs and pulls up a new window. The evening news starts rolling silently on the screen, an anchorwoman drawing attention to the new apartment complexes being erected behind her. The construction is in a cozy little corner of the city though, not the slums.

Not precisely where new housing is needed.

“No, but thank you, Alfred,” he replies, turning his chair to face the other man. Alfred looks weary. Old. “I need to get going.”

“Not even a sandwich?” he inquires.

“I’ll eat when I get back. You should rest.”

Alfred’s right eyebrow arches so far up, Bruce is mildly impressed by the height it achieves. “Was that a joke, Master Bruce?”

Bruce allows himself a small smile. “Not in the slightest. You’re not as young or spry as you once were.”

Alfred _harrumphs_ under his breath, eyes flickering to the large screen behind Bruce. “Run along then, sir. I’ll man the computer.”

Bruce hesitates for a long moment, but eventually he relinquishes his seat to the older man. His reluctance does not go amiss though as Alfred plops down into the chair with a certain air of entitlement. He even goes so far as to wave Bruce off when the young man lingers by his shoulder.

“I know how to operate a computer,” Alfred says. “Or have you already forgotten?”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He sighs, frowning, remembering a similar conversation they had not too long ago. “Alfred…I know you said you would always be there to patch me up at the end of the day, but you _really_ don’t have to monitor all my activity from dusk until dawn.”

“Then how will I know when to patch you up?” Alfred says, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which it _is_ , but even so… “Remember, sir: no man alone is an army. Even a hero occasionally needs a hero.”

Bruce thinks back to the woman in the street, eyes blank, head bent unnaturally to one side. The police had found her body shortly after he did, openly confused as to why this woman had been wandering about at this ungodly hour of night in _this_ particular corner of Gotham. They didn’t know that she was trying to change this city for the better. They didn’t know that she was trying to be a hero.

Just as she didn’t realize there was a price to pay for her valor…

 _‘No one saves us but ourselves,’_ Gautama Buddha once said.

Obviously, Gautama Buddha had never been to Gotham.

 

~***~

The cortex is the epicentre of higher thought.

It’s the outermost layer of the brain. The _‘gray matter’_.  A hub of neural networks, spiraling ever inward before fanning out.

It’s the firing of synapses in a chain reaction, faster than you can blink. Faster than you can possibly _think_ , being that only a small fraction of those cerebral sparks have any hand in cognizant thought.

It’s the sacred place that houses the true soul, where love and hate originate before seizing your heart, your gut, your throat. It’s the core of your very being. Your beginning and your end.

It’s the only part of you that matters really.

Oddly enough, Eobard doesn’t come up with the name. The younger members of his team dub the central lab _‘the Cortex’_ seemingly on a whim. He suspects Cisco is the driving force behind this decision. Such a sensitive boy... A true empath in every meaning of the word. He seemed to believe that all things were worthy of affection; of recognition.

Naming everything in sight was just an extension of that peculiar belief.

A name is such _intimate_ thing though… It’s the most personal part of yourself you’ll share with a new acquaintance. It identifies you. Gives you dimension. It signifies to the world that you are an individual being, deserving of independent thought and feeling.

Eobard, on the other hand, believes that all names must be earned.

 _All_ names.

Even _‘the Flash’_.

Gideon has no record of his old enemy though, not since Mr. Allen absconded to Gotham. The possibility remains for the Flash’s creation, of course, because so long as Barry Allen is in Central City when the particular accelerator seeds its storm, Eobard will always have a way to rouse the lightning in his veins.

By his estimate then, he has four years to lure the boy back to where he belongs. Four years to right all wrongs. Four years to elucidate what measures must be taken in order to reroute the boy to his chosen path and save him from this backward destiny, although if the information Gideon provided him with is true, then Barry’s fate might very well be irrevocably entwined with one much darker than his own…

Tormented by the possibility of losing him completely, Eobard turns down an invitation from his colleagues to dine out that evening in favour of spending his time in quiet contemplation. He waits until the last of his employees have left for the day before he settles into a chair in the dimly lit Cortex, fiddling with his compressor ring, twirling it over and over again around his finger. The sensation soothes him. It focuses his thoughts. It anchors him as he evaluates all known factors, determining the best course of action…

The _‘Wren’._

It’s what they’ll call him someday. Even in Gotham, Barry is still destined to become a hero. The only difference now is that he’ll be the Dark Knight’s invention, yet another disciple of the Bethel of the Bat.

The corner of his lip curls in disdain.

He wonders if the Batman realizes that he’ll soon become the rector of his own cult.

Eobard sighs; takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. To be completely honest, he already knows what must be done. Barry is only in Gotham because he wants to _learn_ , to open his eyes to the inner workings of the criminal world. He wants to know how to detect; how to unravel all mysteries, no matter how intricate they may seem.

He wants to find the man in the lightning…

And that’s exactly what he’ll get.

—In Central City, that is. When the time comes, Eobard will provide the boy with sufficient evidence to suggest that his mother’s murderer is still very much alive and well and _not_ in Gotham. Because really, why not let the boy come to Eobard?

After all, Eobard’s spent enough time chasing after him…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: …Which is such a lie, Eobard, because you _know_ you can’t resist checking up on Barry every other day until he returns _*shakes head in disappointment_.
> 
>  _Aaaannnnnnyyyyyyhow_ …If you’re reading the Oubliette, you can expect the next update in a while. You know what a stickler I am for details. 
> 
> And now, Fun Facts!:
> 
> (1) While I have a knack for creating several minor OCs, both the villain behind the museum mystery and the killer targeting minor heroes are both real characters from the comics. Lesser known villains they may be, they’re still pretty cool. Only go on a google-hunt for them if you want to ruin the surprise ;)
> 
> (2) _Detective Harvey Bullock_ : Most of you already know that he’s a real comic book character. Though I know many people have mixed feelings about the _Gotham_ television show, I still can’t help but picture Donal Logue as Det. Bullock. He just plays the character so gosh darn well…
> 
> (3) As earlier indicated, even though Eobard is miles away, he’s still going to try playing the puppeteer in this scenario. If you’ve been reading the Oubliette, you already know what I think of his obsessive nature…
> 
> (4) _Zero Year_ : If you have any questions about the comic background material itself, don’t hesitate to ask. I enjoy talking about the new comics.  
> ((PS: Enina, I’m almost done the prompt fic! _*squeals in joy*_ I hope you like it! (whenever I get around to posting it…)))


	2. Skull candy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know I’ve been on hiatus for forever and a day, but between real life and having my computer crash, I’ve spent most of that time screaming into a pillow. The next (and yet another long) chapter of The Oubliette therefore had to be written from scratch and was updated only recently. This story sadly had to sit on the sidelines until now…
> 
> Anyhow, thank you for your incredible patience, darlings.
> 
>  
> 
> _Bon appétit…_

_“There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.” ―_ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle _, The Boscombe Valley Mystery_

~***~

Barry is out of commission for almost a month.

He spends the first week under observation in a hospital bed, feeling altogether confused and hazy during his waking hours. The blow to his head had caused a minor basilar fracture of the temporal lobe— _‘minor’_ in the sense that the doctors joke about his having a thick skull when he’s finally coherent enough to hold a conversation. The fracture is a small, linear crack they speculate should heal fully in 6-8 weeks, although he finds it hard to be optimistic when the pain doesn’t show any sign of abating and he develops bruising around the soft tissue of his eyes. It gives him this grave, hollowed out expression, one which scares the living daylights out of Joe and Iris when they finally fly out east to see him.

Cognitively he’s doing remarkably well, enough so that he has the gumption to crack jokes with Iris the moment she waltzes into his hospital room. She looks like she wants to smack him for trying to make light of the situation, although common sense stays her hand. After all, she knows his head is liable to collapse in on itself at any given moment.

 “What hit you?” she inquires after settling for a gentle half-hug instead. “Your friends at the GCPD weren’t exactly forthcoming on what happened to you at the museum.”

“Probably because it was a humiliating experience,” he replies. His memory of the incident is vague, but the one thing he does remember is Philip Truman’s wild-eyed expression as he raised his arm to strike. “I was clocked in the head with an umbrella.”

For a moment there, Iris looks as though she doesn’t quite believe him. “An _umbrella_ , huh?”

“I’m not making this up,” Barry replies. “The guy played baseball in his younger years. He had one hell of a swing…”

“He fractured your skull,” Joe mutters, as though he can’t understand why Barry isn’t half as peeved about this situation as he should be. “Why aren’t you pressing charges?”

“He wasn’t thinking straight at the time.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” Joe snorts dismissively.

“His niece was murdered,” Barry explains. “He saw her body and he just…he lost it. You know what that’s like.”

The man’s expression softens. He nods in understanding.

Iris gives him a sympathetic look. “That’s very big of you, Barry, but I’m still sorry you had to bear the brunt of his frustration.”

“He’s not such a bad guy. He came here personally to apologize, actually. Twice.” Barry inclines his head a little to the right, gesturing to the small collection of gifts beside the window. “He even left me flowers.”

Iris follows his line of sight to the rather large bundle of assorted roses on the windowsill before shifting her attention to the other floral arrangements and _‘get well soon!’_ cards propped up beside it. One of these she picks up to read, smiling fondly. “ _Aww_ , you’ve made so many friends. And in Gotham, of all places…”

He has, actually, which comes as a surprise to him. Almost all the CSIs had dropped by at one point or another to see how he was doing. Even Dets Rask and Bullock paid him a visit, telling him that they finally had a lead on the museum case, although Bullock openly admitted that something about the whole situation still didn’t sit well with him.

Iris replaces the card and snatches up another, this one from the few sergeants and other detectives Barry had met since starting at the GCPD. She frowns a little though as her eyes skim over one of the individual messages. “What does this Colby guy mean by _‘five months now’.._?”

Grinning sheepishly, Barry shrugs. “I have no idea…”

Joe gives him a knowing look.

“Probably an inside joke,” he supplies, trying to wave off her question. “I think. I don’t remember. Head injury, right? —Anyway, how long are the two of you planning on staying in Gotham?”

Iris doesn’t look at all convinced by his botched attempt at a misdirection, but she decides to take pity on him, given his current state. “We have to fly back at the end of the week. I’d stay longer, but finals are coming up soon. I’d be more than happy to come back once I’m done though.”

“That’s okay,” Barry replies, relieved that he’ll have their company for at least a couple of days. Not that he can afford to admit it, but he’s missed both of them something fierce since coming out to Gotham. “I don’t intend to do anything too adventurous anytime soon. Just bed rest and an abundance of paper work.”

“You sure you don’t want to come back with us?” Joe asks, going for nonchalant. “We’ve still got an opening for you at the CCPD.”

Barry shifts uncomfortably on the bed. “That’s…I appreciate that, Joe, really, but you already know my answer.”

Iris smacks her father lightly on the arm in jest. “Barry’s got to make it on his own, dad. Has to show the world he’s a _real_ man.”

Barry frowns. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Sort of,” she admits, “but only with all the love in our hearts. Dad and I are just scared, you know? Gotham doesn’t exactly have the best reputation. It’s been subjected to one _seriously_ bizarre terrorist attack already.”

He can concede to that, but…

He doesn’t want to leave.

It’s hard to explain, but ever since he started at the GCPD, he’s felt as though this is the place the universe always needed him to be. Sure, it isn’t ‘ _safe’_ or ‘ _clean’_ or even _remotely_ kind to outsiders, but Gotham isn’t at all the proverbial beast in the throes of death that the media enjoys making it out to be. This city is a little like him actually: someone who’s been knocked flat on their back but who hasn’t been incapacitated completely yet. He’s slowly but surely healing.

In a sense, so is Gotham.

Iris tilts her head a little to one side, eyes narrowed as she sizes him up. As nervous as that stare used to make him when they were children, he feels oddly calm facing it now. “No? Not even a _little_ tempted? I’d buy you coffee every day for the rest of your life if you came back now…”

Barry smiles at the two of them as sweetly as he can manage with his pale face and dark eyes, then says, “I love you both with all my heart too, but I’m not leaving. Not for the next little while, anyhow. Give it a couple of years, and then maybe I’ll get this stubborn streak out of my system.”

Joe gives him this sigh of long suffering, shaking his head in disbelief. Suddenly then, he narrows his eyes and nods decisively. “Fine. Two years it is.”

Barry blinks. “I…Well, I didn’t mean _exactly_ two years. I was just—”

“Too late,” Joe interjects. “A deal’s a deal. Iris, let’s grab something to eat, yeah? I think it’s well past Barry’s bedtime.”

“ _Hah_ ,” he laughs drily. “I’m not a kid anymore, you know.”

“Nonsense. You’ll always be my kid.” Joe reaches down to take Barry’s hand in his own. He gives it a gentle squeeze. “Rest up, partner. We’ll be back in the morning.”

Barry squeezes his hand in return, grinning at Iris as she gives him a small wink before disappearing out into the hall.

Joe turns down the lights before following after her.

Once he’s alone, Barry tilts his aching head to one side to stare again at the small assortment of gifts on the windowsill.

As tough as many of members of the GCPD fancied themselves to be, the trauma they’d endured during the crisis forced them to realize how weak they really were on their own. While they obviously enjoyed joking about his wide-eyed innocence, it was clear to him that they truly appreciated the help even someone as young and inexperienced as Barry Allen could offer them.

Appeased with his decision to stay in Gotham, Barry slowly succumbs to exhaustion, just about to nod off completely when a bolt of lightning suddenly streaks across the evening sky.

He opens his eyes again and stares out the window, at the dark, plump rainclouds hovering overhead. The lights inside the office building across the way turn on in concert, probably set to a timer. A green neon sign advertising a show at one of the local theatres glows eerily in the distance.

Gradually, Gotham comes to life.

To be honest, Barry enjoys this city the most at night. That’s when the spotlights turn on, throwing the tall towering buildings into stark relief. The old stone gargoyles too, which Barry loves most of all, the way they crouch out over the streets to survey the bustling people down below. They might not offer much in the way of protection, but he likes to imagine that the men and women who founded this city built them to give Gotham’s citizens a sense of security. They’re evidence that there were people who cared about this city once, no matter how long ago that might’ve been.

The same way Barry cares about Gotham now.

And the same way he hopes for years to come…

~***~

Peter ‘Spitz’ Fitzgerald is smoking a joint in the alleyway behind his uncle’s bar when all unholy hell descends upon him.

It’s 11 o’clock at night and the streets are slick with rain when he ducks outside for a break. The storm let up maybe half an hour ago but the puddles are still deep enough to soak through his ratty sneakers and there’s a distinct chill in the air that cuts straight to the bones, so he swears, lights up his cig, and takes a nice long drag between his bloodied lips.

The cut that bitch gave him a few nights ago hasn’t quite healed over yet.

Whatever. She’s one less problem to worry about now, what with her being dead and all. But what a fucking nightmare _that_ night had been. If anyone found out some woman kicked his ass six ways to Sunday, he’d never live it down.

Spitz takes another longdrag of his cigarette.

Thank god his reputation is still intact.

Thank god he’s got good dental too, because one second he’s standing upright and then the next his face is colliding with a brick wall. He drops his cigarette and cracks a tooth, howling in pain before his brain has a chance to catch up with whatever the fuck is happening to him right now.

Startled, but by no means subdued, he shoves himself bodily off the wall and whirls around, swinging a fist before he’s even sure where to aim. He sees someone tall and dark, but his attacker sidesteps smoothly to the left, avoiding the blow before following up with a punch of his own, catching Spitz underneath the jaw.

His teeth rattle together as the back of his head smacks into the wall. Dazed, he slumps to the ground, rainwater and alley grease soaking through his trousers.

Just as the world stops spinning, his attacker leans down in front of him, fisting his shirt and yanking Spitz up onto his feet. All that Spitz can make out in the dim light are the whites of this guy’s eyes and his snarling teeth.

 _“Are you a murderer, Spitz?”_ the maniac asks.

Spitz doesn’t know how this whacko knows his name, but he figures that’s the least of his worries now, so he shakes his head and says, “Holy _crap_ , man—I never killed anyone!”

 _“But you seem to really enjoy beating on them.”_ The man punches him again—right in the gut, keeping a hold on his shirt so that Spitz doesn’t slump down any further. _“Like that kid outside the grocers, or the woman who ran to his rescue.”_

“Oh man…” Spitz mumbles, spitting up blood. He knows what this freak is on about now. “Oh man, oh man, oh _hell_ —I did _not_ kill that woman.”

_“You and your buddy were spotted in the same street where her body was found, around the **same time** she was murdered. Care to explain?”_

“W-we were following her home,” Spitz replies. “She embarrassed the hell out of us, so we wanted another go at it. We didn’t kill her though, man. We just found her body.”

Not surprisingly, his masked assailant punches him again. Winded, Spitz gasps for air. _“That’s not entirely true.”_

Spitz can’t help himself. Tears well up in his eyes. He’s shaking too, but he tries to convince himself that’s only because of the cold. “It w-was some tall guy, okay?” He chokes out. “Wore a trench coat. Didn’t see his face. He hit her once and then d-disappeared into the alley.”

The man pauses then. Spitz wonders if he’s supposed to say more, but then the freak taps the side of his head, almost as though he’s listening to something.

Spitz wonders if this guy has got a blue tooth in his ear, if maybe he’s not working alone…

“Holy fuck,” Spitz breathes in mild disbelief. “Are you with the police or something?”

There’s nothing too much he can read in the man’s expression other than the subtle, derisive curl of his lips, but Spitz gets the feeling he’s somehow just managed to piss this guy off more than he had before with that one statement alone.

Not that it matters much, considering that asshole then takes this as an invitation to lay into him one last time.

All that Spitz has to worry about then is an all-consuming darkness.

~***~

Work is an absolute disaster.

Barry waits a grand total of four weeks before returning to the precinct—not because he’s cleared for duty _just_ yet, but because he has difficulty sitting idle in his tiny apartment suite, all alone and unproductive. He came out here to learn something about the peculiarities of Gotham’s criminal element, after all, and so far he’s spent most of that time in bed. So when Monday morning rolls around and his alarm clock’s run through its third snooze cycle, he showers, drugs himself up with pain killers, and then catches the 141 bus to his branch of the GCPD.

When he eventually makes it downstairs to the precinct’s lab, he finds Trish practically pulling her hair out as she struggles to open the lid on one of the older centrifuges. The three newer ones beside it are already whirling away madly, the mechanical side of the lab abuzz with life. It’s hot in there though. Like, _really_ hot. So much so that Barry can already feel the sweat prickling above his brow and around the collar of his shirt.

This should’ve been his first clue that things were about to get seriously weird today.

“What happened to the air conditioning?”

Frantic as she is to open the centrifuge, Trish doesn’t notice him until he’s standing right behind her. She literally jumps when she hears him, just about elbowing him in the diaphragm in the process.

“Oh, _Christ_ —don’t _do that_ , Barry!” She snaps, turning sharply to slap him on the arm. Then she catches sight of his face. As much as the bruising has faded over time, he still has two _very_ noticeable raccoon eyes. “…Not that it isn’t nice to see you again, but aren’t you supposed to be gone for a couple more weeks?”

“As long as I don’t use my head as a battering ram, I think I should still be able to do some paperwork.”

“You can _so_ totally tell that you’ve recently suffered a head injury though,” she replies, giving him an odd look. “Go home, man. You don’t want to be here now anyway. _Trust me_. We’re firing on all cylinders and still we’re behind.”

“All the more reason to help,” he chirps, reaching over to fiddle with the centrifuge lid. He presses down on it once hard and then releases it quickly—

It pops open with a humorous _‘click’_.

“Saint Bartholomew…” she huffs in mild irritation. Almost as suddenly though, she smiles. “Fun fact—did you know he was credited with many miracles concerning the weight of objects?”

Bemused, Barry says, “No, I did not.”

Pushing the lid the rest of the way open, she reaches over to collect the Eppendorf tubes slotted inside. “The people of Lipari used to carry his silver statue from the cathedral to the centre of the town during a parade on his feast day. One year though the statue’s bearers suddenly found it impossible to lift. In fact, they were so delayed on their way down the hill, no one was inside the town when a building collapsed out into the street. If they’d been on time, they would’ve been crushed.”

Barry grins. “A hero from the great beyond, huh? I didn’t know you had an interest in saints, Trish.”

“My mother was a religious nut,” she sighs. “Used to make me memorize all their names and how they died. For example, did you know that poor Bartholomew was flayed alive and then crucified? Tell me—what possible _good_ does knowing that do for a seven year old child?”

Caught up in the sudden awkwardness of their conversation, Barry can’t think of anything to do but shrug. “Um…it gives you an appreciation for living in the 21st century?”

“I suppose,” she murmurs. “Sorry, man. I get irritable when I’m tired. We only have half the staff we used to before…well, before the _‘crisis’_.”

 “No harm done,” he replies, nodding in understanding. “I know you’re busy, and I realize you probably have a million things to do today, but could you at least tell me where Mitch is? He isn’t in his office and I really want to know if I can get away with coming back this early.”

“Oh.” Trish gets a little pale-faced herself just then. “That’s right, you don’t know yet…”

Barry blinks. “Know what?”

“Mitch had a heart attack two days ago. He’s going to be out of commission for a while, hence the greater lack of warm bodies than usual.”  She gestures to the rest of the lab with a wave of her hand. Michael Jameson, who is sitting at the microscope bench in the far corner, lifts his head from his work briefly to wave in return. “So…I guess if you _really_ want to start early, I’m not going to stop you. Just don’t be surprised if someone from HR sees you and kicks you out again until you no longer look like an extra from _The Walking Dead_.”

“I’ll keep to the shadows then,” he jests.

“Funny, but there’s still no escaping your psych evaluation.”

This stops Barry short. “Wait—what?”

Trish grins. “Dude, you were assaulted at a crime scene. I mean, the guy hit you hard enough to _fracture_ _your_ _skull_. Did you honestly believe they wouldn’t make you talk to a shrink?”

Barry makes a face. He spent so much of his childhood talking to shrinks. Honestly, he thinks they’re a waste of time. “I _guess_ not… But I’m fine. Really.”

“It’s just one brief session,” she says. “I think. Might want to delete your blog before your appointment though. They might find it a little weird that a grown man stills believes that there are things in the world that go bump in the night.”

“There _are_ things that go bump in the night,” he retorts.

“Yeah, but really only ‘ _The_ _Batman’_.”

She winks at him, then picks up her tray of Eppendorf tubes and saunters off to her workbench.

Barry shuts the lid on the centrifuge gently, giving it an affectionate pat before heading toward the far back of the lab where their offices are located.

He finds Hannah Feist, a blond haired, blue-eyed, thirty-something year old immigrant from Germany sitting at her desk beside the door, trying to put a dent in the stack of folders overflowing the large ‘IN’ box beside her. She glances up to smile at him as he enters the room, but her attempt at a cheery expression falls flat when she finally gets a good look at his face. “Oh man…that guy _really_ did a number on you.”

“Thankfully, I’ve been told I have a thick skull.”

“God bless,” She snorts as she tosses her pen down on the desk, leaning back in her chair to ease the pressure on her spine. “So, what brings you back to the lab so soon, Mr. Allen? Last I heard, you weren’t due back for another two weeks.”

“I thought I could start small, maybe squeeze in a few hours every day until I can manage a full shift again,” he admits, fingering the stack of folders. “There are reports I never got the chance to finish before the incident at the museum. Besides, you look like you could use the help.”

Hannah smiles. “If I wasn’t married, Barry, I’d kiss you. Mitch actually dropped a pile on your desk last week, in anticipation of your return.” Her smiles fades a little. “Speaking of which, has anyone told you what happened to him?”

“Trish said he had a heart attack.”

“Yeah…” Hannah sighs. “Then again, he’s always had high blood pressure. Runs in the family. Both his mother and his older brother died of heart attacks when they were only in their 50s.”

Barry nods in understanding. As tough as it could be sometimes working under Mitch’s constant scrutiny, he had no ill-wishes for the man.

He’d have to figure out where Mitch was recuperating and pay him a visit when he got the chance.

“Anyhow, go at it for an hour or so and see if that makes your head spin.” She picks up her pen again, sighing as she glances down at the half-finished report spread out before her. “I’m leaving at three-thirty to pick my son up from school, so if you hang around long enough I can probably give you a ride home.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

“Oh, and just in case you _hadn’t_ noticed yet, the air conditioner sang its swan song over the weekend. I hope you like the heat.”

Barry chuckles. No, he really isn’t a fan of the heat, but he’s still glad to be back. It’s been hard going without any form of human interaction for so long.

Shrugging off his jacket, he tosses it onto the coat rack beside the door before making his way to the other side of the room. True to word, there’s considerably more paperwork on his desk than he remembers there being before he was hospitalized.

Even so, he couldn’t be happier.

He pulls out his chair and takes a seat, reaching for a pen—just as he inadvertently kicks something under his desk.

Startled, Barry pushes back his chair far enough that he can glance under said desk, eyes latching onto a small unlabelled cardboard box. He pulls it out, surprised by its weight, and drops it heavily on top of his paper work.

“Are you okay?” Hannah inquires, watching him carefully from across the room.

“Yeah, I just…” Barry checks either side of the box before lifting the lid. “I think someone forgot to label an evidence box.”

“ _What_?” she snaps. “What’s in it?”

Everything is properly contained at least, so he reaches down and picks up one of the baggies tucked inside. It’s filled with…stones? Debris?

It takes him a moment, but slowly realization dawns on him. “This is from the museum case.”

Hannah gives him an odd look. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke?”

“Maybe?” His heart falls a little at the thought. “I’m going to go pull up whatever report Trish or Mitch submitted to the database and check it against the contents of the box. Hopefully nothing is missing.”

“Let me know if you want someone to see if there are other boxes for the case downstairs,” she replies. “Take it easy, Barry.”

Barry rolls his eyes.

When was anything _easy_ at the GCPD?

~***~

_‘Crunch.’_

Harvey Bullock knows when something is up.

He’s lived in Gotham all his life. He knows the Ins and the Outs of this city. Knows the people too, just about as well as he knows his own soul.

He’s always had a knack for reading people. That’s part of why he’d chosen this profession. He can tell a thief by the way their gaze lingers too long on another man’s pocket; can tell the liar by the way their lips curl coltishly around a fib. Everyone has a tell, both the good people and the bad. Even Mitch, who fidgets endlessly as he battles silently with his smoking habit, the one he’s been trying to kick for years. Even Trish Simons, the way the corner of her left eye twitches whenever someone tries to outshine her.

Even Det. Rask, although there… _there’s_ a man Bullock can’t get a half-way decent read on.

He’s a clean cop so far as Bullock can tell, although he’s got this nervous edge about him, as though he’s got a sacred secret he isn’t sure is much of a mystery anymore.

Not for the umpteenth time, Bullock wonders what’s on the younger man’s mind.

For instance, right now Rask is sitting at his desk across from Harvey, chewing on the eraser end of yet another 2B pencil as his fingers fly frantically over his keyboard. He’s completely absorbed in whatever it is he’s typing, but at the same time he’s practically gnawing away on that 2B pencil—like, _really_ gnawing on it, hard enough that the sound breaks Bullock’s concentration. It’s just…it’s…

_‘Crunch.’_

Even though the bull pen is always in a state of pandemonium, no one in this precinct has been able to derail his train of thought as thoroughly as Det. Conner Rask.

This isn’t even the first pencil to fall victim to Rask’s nasty habit. He’s chewed on maybe ten in the last month alone before tossing them into one of his drawers, unused and collecting dust. At first, Bullock wondered if this was some sort of stand-in for another addiction, but Rask has none of the other tells, least of all for nicotine. It still piques Bullock’s interest in a way he can’t quite explain. There’s just something more to it, you know?

The _has_ to be.

_‘Crunch’_

Bullock physically winces. He _can’t_ stand that sound. Not now, not _ever_ , and he plans on telling Rask just that when another officer wanders over to his desk. So he glances briefly at the newcomer—then does a double-take when he realizes that it’s not, in fact, an officer, but rather a dark-eyed Barry Allen, the poor CSI he shipped off to the hospital just a little over a month ago.

“Jesus…” Harvey breathes, mildly horrified.

“ _‘Candy’_ ,” Barry replies jovially.

Of all the bizarre things that have been said in the precinct this morning alone, _this_ manages to tear Rask’s focus away from his report. The guy gives Barry the weirdest look ever and says, “What the hell?”

Barry doesn’t say anything, just deposits a plastic bag on top of Harvey’s desk as though it holds the answers to all of life’s mysteries. Inside is some kind of molten substance that has obviously recently been re-solidified. Part of it is multicolored. The rest is a reddish-brown.

Harvey picks up the bag tentatively between his thumb and forefinger. It’s got a label on it, so this crap is evidence for something. Doesn’t make this situation any less weird though. “Sorry about your sweets, kid. Maybe you should go lie down…?”

“No, it’s—” Barry squeezes his eyes shut briefly, only now seeming to realize how ridiculous his behaviour must appear to them. “This is from the museum case. Look—”

Barry hands him a pamphlet from the exhibition, folded back to show a photo of the six gems from Australia. The boy taps the page over one gem in particular, a stone the size of a regular egg. It’s a motley mixture of reds, yellows, and blues.

Harvey glances back at the bag in his hand. Part of this strange substance shares the same swirling hues. “I’ll be damned…”

“It’s called the Rosella,” Barry explains. “Well, obviously _this_ isn’t the Rosella, but it was made to look like the original. I don’t think the fragments would’ve melted if the AC in the lab wasn’t conspiring to give everyone a heat stroke.”

“You mean to tell me someone replaced a precious gem with _candy_?” Harvey snorts. “Cocky son of a bitch…”

Rask slowly rises from his seat, wandering across the floor to join Barry beside Harvey’s desk. He takes the pamphlet from the kid and glances at the picture of the gems, comparing it to the melted candy in the Barry’s evidence bag. “Well, this certainly changes things.”

Barry looks at the detective inquisitively. “Oh?”

“Miss Higgins used to date one of the museum’s security guards,” the man explains as he hands back the pamphlet. “Her ex was on duty one night when the cameras were on the fritz. For a while there he looked like our guy. If this is about a theft though…”

Harvey nods. “It’s just one more thing to add to our list.” Not in a bad way, mind you, which is why he grins at the kid as he hands back the evidence bag. “Even with your brain rattled, you still manage to put your best foot forward. Not bad, Mr. Allen.”

The way the boy drops his gaze briefly to the floor betrays how flattered he is by the detective’s praise. If he wasn’t so pale-faced and sickly, Harvey’s sure the kid would’ve been blushing right about now.

Barry shakes off the look quickly though as he looks back up at Harvey and says, “Thank you, but I wouldn’t have checked the evidence box if someone hadn’t left it under my desk.”

“Seriously?” Harvey hisses through his teeth. “If Mitch were here right now, he’d throw a fit.”

“About that…” Barry shifts his weight nervously between his feet, “I was told that he had a heart attack?”

“He was working late in the lab again. The Commissioner dropped by to say good night and found him on the floor.”

“That…that’s horrible.”

“I hear he’s doing fine so far,” Harvey sighs. “Although I don’t imagine he’ll be back to work any time soon.”  

“Where did they send him?”

“Same place as you, kid.” Harvey leans back in his chair, crossing his hands behind his head. “Gotham General. You should pay him a visit sometime soon.”

“I will.”

“And by soon, I mean today.” At Barry’s blank expression, Harvey continues. “I know the lab is short-staffed at the moment, but you look like you belong back in hospital yourself. Take this break while you still can, kid. You’re no good to us with a brittle skull.”

Barry tries to smile politely, but it’s such a weak thing, like he knows Harvey is right and he hates it. “I’m only here to do desk work actually. Just a few hours a day. Nothing—”

“I’ll report you,” Harvey says softly. He’s not trying to be rude here, but Barry Allen is little like all the other boys in blue: you’ve really got to scare them sometimes to get them to hear reason. “The worst you’ll probably get is a stern talking-to, but it’ll be a blemish on your otherwise pristine record and I know how much that matters to you.”

Barry’s expression goes completely blank again, although the bruised eyes gives him a much darker look than what the boy is probably going for.

Rask is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “What the _hell_ , Harve?”

“Shut up, Rask.” Harvey lowers his arms, folding his hands together now over his desk. “Allen, it’s nothing personal. I admire your tenacity, really, but I’ve been watching my fellow officers work themselves half to death since the crisis, and seeing that guy lay into you with an umbrella was just the icing on the cake. Go home, rest up, and then come back to us as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as you were the first day you breezed in here.”

Barry nods slowly, obviously stunned.

Poor kid.

Feeling a bit like shit for gutting the kid square in his sense of commitment to The Job, Harvey clears his throat and says, “You want a ride home?”

Thankfully, this seems to rouse Barry from his stupor. The young man shakes his head. “Feist is going to give me a lift. But…thank you.”

Rask is still giving him a dirty look out of the corner of his eye.

Clearing his own throat, Barry collects the bag from Harvey’s desk, eyes downcast, looking every bit like a kicked puppy. “I’m just going to put this back in its box. In the evidence room. Not under my desk.” The boy shrugs. “I’ve labelled it now, so, you know, you’ll have an easier time finding it…”

“Thanks,” Rask replies.

Obviously eager not to draw this conversation out any longer, Barry pivots sharply on his heel and retreats back to the lab.

There’s about a ten second period of silence between them before Rask stares Harvey dead in the eye and says, “You’re an asshole.”

Harvey frowns. “And you’re a moron if you think I’m wrong.”

“You’re not, but I _do_ think you could’ve done that with a little more finesse. He’s a hard worker. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a child.”

Maybe he’s right…but the sooner Barry understands how vulnerable every man really is in this city, the better off he’ll be.

“A little tough love never hurt anyone,” Harvey mutters, shoeing his partner away with the wave of his hand.

Rask snorts at him dismissively. “If you honestly believe he’s going to listen to you, you don’t know him half as well as you should.”

There it is again—that bit of this man that Harvey just doesn’t understand yet, that hint of something…

 _More_.

Harvey stares back at his partner for a good, long time, searching for the clue that will unravel the mystery that is Detective Conner Rask.

After a beat though, he looks down at his work and shrugs. “I probably will someday though. Now, _fuck_ _off_.”

Rask mutters something under his breath that Harvey doesn’t quite catch, but he returns to his desk without further prompting, dropping heavily into his seat.

A second later, he picks up his 2B pencil and absently puts the eraser end in his mouth again.

It takes every ounce of Harvey’s will power not to flinch at the resounding _‘crunch’_.

~***~

Barry closes his eyes and tries to will away the sudden migraine mounting behind his eyes.

He wants to believe that it’s a result of overexerting himself, that he really _is_ pushing himself too hard, but he can’t think that without picturing the words coming from Det. Bullock’s mouth, and that… _that_ just ticks him off to no end. He knows he has a lot to learn here. He _knows_ he’s not some seasoned detective who’s walked the length of hell and lived to tell the tale. He doesn’t _need_ someone to point that out to him. He got enough of those lectures from Joe when he first decided to he was going to pursue a career in forensics…

Thankfully, Barry doesn’t have an explosive personality, otherwise he might’ve said something to Det. Bullock that he would’ve regretted. Honestly, the people here swear too much. The urge to hurl the F-word when the mood strikes is really getting to be too much…

“You want something cold to drink?”

Barry opens his eyes again. Trish wandered past his desk not five minutes ago, brown hair pulled back tight into a high ponytail, sweat dripping down the sides of her face as she asked him the exact same question. He told her no, but she waved off his answer and left to find a working water cooler anyway.

Smiling, Barry shakes his head. “No thanks, Simon.”

Simon Fabel is the resident computer-whiz at the precinct. He’s also the most laid back person in the CSI, second perhaps only to Trish, although he has an easier time getting away with it considering the amount of time he spends tucked away in his own office. He whiles away the hours poring over security footage from crime scenes and hacking into questionable material on confiscated laptops, a job nobody really envies of him.

Pushing his spectacles farther up his nose, Simon glances down at the stack of files on the corner of Barry’s desk and tries not to make a face. “Okay, well, I know you’re probably busy right now, but could I borrow you for, like, maybe five minutes?”

“He has plenty of time to spare,” Hannah sighs from her desk by the door, well aware of the reprimand Barry received from Det. Bullock only an hour ago.

News travels fast in the GCPD.

“Sure,” Barry replies, although he isn’t too keen on following Simon down the hall to his office. Given the number of computers he has running in there at any given a time, it must be an inferno right about now.

Simon smiles, leading the way to his office—which, surprisingly, really isn’t all that hot. Definitely hot- _ter_ than Barry’s office, but it’s clear that the guy has no desire to fry himself while the AC is out, so only one of his computers is on at the moment, running surveillance from a camera situated in some alleyway.

Taking a seat in front of the monitors, Simon reaches under the desk and pulls out a small insulated bag. From this, he produces a bottle of water.

A _cold_ bottle of water.

Barry accepts it graciously as he takes a seat next to Simon. “So, what is it you wanted to show me?”

“Only the coolest thing ever,” Simons says quietly, fast forwarding through the footage briefly before he pauses on one particular scene. “Feast your eyes on _this_ , Barry Allen…”

Barry leans forward in his chair.

The picture’s a little grainy considering how dark it is outside at the time of the recording, but Barry can still make out the pale figure of some guy slumped against one of the alleyway walls, hands raised defensively in front of his face. His assailant has one hand fisted in the guy’s shirt to keep him from collapsing to the ground, and he’s…he’s…

It’s awfully hard to tell, but Barry’s 99.9% positive knows who the other guy is. “Is that…?”

“The _Batman_ ,” Simon replies excitedly. “The other guy just walked out of the bar on the right to take a smoke when good ol’ Bats jumped him. Of course, he denies anything happened, but his uncle sent us the footage anyway because he says we should arrest the vigilante.” Simon laughs. “Fat chance we’d ever do _that_. I mean, even if we wanted to, I don’t know how we would...”

“This is pretty cool,” Barry says, grinning.

“Oh—that’s not all, my friend!” It takes Simon a moment, but eventually he pulls up the footage from another camera on the monitor to the left. “I thought the other guy looked kind of familiar, and then I realized he was a suspect in a recent murder case. He and his buddy were the last two people to see _this_ woman alive.”

Considering the equally poor lighting in this shot, Barry can’t make out much of said woman’s features. Just that she looks short and has red hair—and packs one hell of a punch, if the pained expression on the thug’s face is anything to go by.

“What murder case is this?” Barry asks.

“It happened right around the time you were hospitalized. She gave these guys a beating because they were harassing some kid outside a grocery store. Then she waltzed off in the general direction of her apartment, only to be found with a broken neck a few blocks away from her destination. CCTV footage shows these guys trailing after her, but since most of the city’s cameras are still crap after the crisis, we have no way of telling if they were the ones who really killed her.”

“Apparently, Batman doesn’t think so…”

“I know, right? He would’ve dragged their sorry asses down here, wouldn’t he?” Simon leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his head. “Anyhow, I thought you would like to see him with your own two eyes. Just about everyone else here did when the Riddler had us under lockdown.”

Barry turns his head to look at his friend, brows furrowed in concern. “I’m…I’m really sorry that that happened to you and the others. What did you think, you know, when you realized no one could leave the city?”

“Well, he had drones patrolling the streets, and sometimes they would just shoot people...” Simon shrugs. “Honestly, I was convinced I was going to die. I tried hacking into Nygma’s security system during the crisis and he remotely electrocuted me, I kid you not. Officer Magor had to do CPR.”

Barry winces.

Simon waves off his concern though with a casual flick of the wrist “Oh well, it’s over now, although I’ve literally been stalking Batman since he saved our lives, kind of in the hope that I’ll figure out who he is and thank him in person someday.”

“Any guesses so far?”

“Lance Mofet. He’s got the build for it.”

For some reason, that just doesn’t sound right to Barry though. Sure, he has the right body type—he’s a legendary quarterback, after all, but Mofet’s just too… _smarmy_ , maybe? And from the television interviews Barry has seen of him, he doesn’t sound too smart either.

All the same…

“ _‘_ Lance Mofet is Batman’,” Barry says out loud, tasting the phrase, giving it the good old college try…

Barry and Simon share a pained look before shaking their heads simultaneously.

“Where would he get all that equipment from anyway?” Barry inquires.

“Could be that somebody else is funding him,” Simon suggests, but he doesn’t sound very convinced himself either. “Whatever…at least now I can cross him off my list.”

“You have a list?”

“You don’t?”

Barry shakes his head.

“Then hop to it, man! Fifty bucks to guy who gets it right.”

“How is that even fair? You have access to all the city’s CCTV cameras.”

“Yeah, but you have clearance to all the crime scenes he’ll ever visit between now and whenever you decide to hightail it out of Gotham. You can…I don’t know, do a psychological profile on him or something? Trish says you’re real keen like that.”

“I’m a chemist.”

“And a people-person.” Simon smiles. “The ladies here say that you remind them of a cute little puppy. They just want to bare their hearts to you, buddy.”

Barry resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re right. All I have to do is bat my eyelashes at the vigilante and he’ll tell me everything.”

“He just might.”

“I doubt it.”

Simon shrugs. “Weirder things have happened.”

True enough, but Barry figures the closest he’s ever going to get to seeing the Batman is on Simon’s computer screens. Which is fine by him, really. As intrigued as he is with uncovering who the man behind the mask is, Barry’s far more interested in analyzing Gotham’s criminals.

Particularly those of a more abnormal bend.

“Fine,” Barry sighs. “Fifty bucks to the guy who gets it right. That might not be for twenty some odd years though.”

“Well, I’m not planning on going anywhere in the meantime…are you?”

Barry gives him a weak smile.

Simon punches him gently on the shoulder. “Chin up, Allen. Bullock means well. I will admit, you’re probably going to look like a kid for rest of your life, and you’re going to get a _lot_ of flak because of it, but so what? We’re thick, us CSIs. We’ll help you weather through it.”

“Thanks,” he breathes, relieved that so many of his associates apparently thought he could make it in Gotham.

“Any time, man.”

“Speaking of help…” Barry continues, using the turn in their conversation as the perfect segue to an unusual request. “How quickly can you sort through data?”

“That depends. Where is this data coming from?”

“Cold case files. Or murder cases that might’ve been filed away as accidental deaths. I’m not sure yet.”

Despite the vagueness of his criteria, Simon looks intrigued. “Tell me more.”

“I want to look for any cases that involved jewelry or precious gems that might’ve been, well…”

“Explosive?” Simon asks, cluing in to the nature of Barry’s request. “Or otherwise booby-trapped?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Say no more.” Simon turns his attention to his computer screen, closing the stills from the two security cameras as he pulls up the GCPD’s electronic database. “I can run a search in the background while I work today. I’ll text you tonight if I find anything interesting.”

“Thank you, Simon. I mean—” Barry runs a hand through his hair, relieved. “—I _really_ appreciate this.”

“No need to thank me, man. Hunting down the scum of this city is what I do best.”

Barry rises from his seat then, ready to head back to his own office, when he stops suddenly and says, “‘Simon Fabel is Batman’.”

They share a look.

After a heartbeat, Simon says, “You know, I _could_ be Batman.”

Barry shakes his head. “Nah. Not tall enough.”

“What about his side-kick?”

“Possibly…”

Simon smiles. “Maybe not, though. I mean, what would you even call his side-kick? _‘Batboy’_? I’m almost thirty now. Too old for a kid’s name, bro.”

Barry shrugs. “ _Is_ there an age-limit on side-kicks though?”

“Fifteen,” Simon supplies, nodding to himself. “Or sixteen. Any older than that and I imagine they’d rebel against the idea of playing second fiddle to anyone.”

Barry laughs.

Honestly, what sane adult would want to work alongside someone as foreboding as the Bat anyway?

~***~

Calls past eleven pm are not an unusual thing.

Calls on the cell phone tucked away in the left hand drawer of his desk _are_.

He hasn’t heard it ring in over a month now.

Tentatively, he opens the drawer and pulls out the mobile in question. He glances briefly at the number on the screen to make sure it is who he thinks it is before he answers the call. “Hello?”

_“We have a problem.”_

Slowly, he rises from his seat. Even though the walls are soundproofed, he can hear the steady thrum of the music on the other side from the bar. It pulsates in time with his heartbeat.

He presses the phone closer to his ear as he makes his way up the stairwell from his office to his boss’s. “Explain.”

_“They know the stone is a fake.”_

He pauses a moment. “…You _assured_ me that the gem had already been examined, that no one was going to take a second look. How could they _possibly_ know it was a fake?”

_“One of the new CSIs was rifling through the evidence box for god-knows-what reason this morning. He said the stone was made of fucking **candy**.”_

Huh…

Trust his boss to have a sense of humour.

“Do you have any idea why he would do that?”

_“Maybe…His name is Barry Allen. He’s the one Phillip Truman took a crack at in the museum. I doubt the old man knows anything about it, but he did visit the kid a couple of times in the hospital. Maybe he already suspected something about the stone and decided to tip Allen off?”_

Great. Now he had _two_ people to worry about _._

Resigned, he continues his ascent.

“Who else knows?”

_“Who the hell **doesn’t**? Maybe if you retards hadn’t made the Rosella out of **sugar** , nobody here would really give a damn.”_

“Whatever. So long as Mr. Allen doesn’t connect this murder with any of the others, we won’t have a problem.”

_“And if he does?”_

He grins.

As if he _really_ has to say it out loud.

“I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, keep an eye on him. Let me know if he does anything else stupid.”

His informant huffs in frustration before hanging up.

Neil shoves the cell phone into his suit pocket before he reaches the top of the stairs. He raises his hand and knocks gently on the wood.

After a moment of silence, he lets himself in.

There’s a glass wall on the far side of the room that overlooks the dance floor down below. The multi-coloured lights from the DJs stage flicker through the air, illuminating the office.

“The GCPD just called,” Neil says to the silhouette of his boss’s chair.

He waits a second for a response. When he gets nothing, he adds: “They know about the Rosella.”

Slowly, the chair turns.

Neil swallows hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Barry’s such a happy little plum. You know, except when people are beating him over the head, either literally or figuratively…
> 
> Anyhow—thank you for your incredible patience with me! You can expect more regular updates from me now that my life’s back in order again.
> 
> And now—FUN FACTS (which are brief today, sorry):
> 
> (1) Skull fractures: I had a small one, but only because I broke my nose in a very unique manner. A friend of mine had the ‘minor basilar fracture of the temporal lobe’ mentioned in the story and so I based Barry’s recovery time on his experience. Of course, recovery times change depending on the nature of a fracture and the age of the patient, so if you’ve had a different experience, that’s completely understandable. In fact, tell me more. Batman’s going to be cracking more skulls in the near future! I need details, people. XD
> 
> (2) The GCPD’s lab: I actually work in a lab. A genetics lab too, no less, but our work is purely research based. If you yourself work in a forensics lab and find that I’ve written anything incorrectly, please don’t ever hesitate to let me know.
> 
> [[Side note: I’m on tumblr now! Not sure how to put a link here, but some of you have already found me under my (borrowed) pen name: ladyofpride. If you want to ‘Ask’ me, the author of _‘The Oubliette’_ and _‘The Wren’_ , anything on tumblr, please address your question to ‘Henri’. Otherwise Amy, the actual owner of this account and main author of all the other stories posted here, will continue to assume you’re talking to her.]]
> 
> See you around, darlings!


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